sponded Susan calmly, without the
tiniest suspicion of pertness in her tone or bearing. "You believe in
doing what you want to. _I_ wanted to hear what you were saying, Mr.
Phar."

"Of course you did!" Phil struck in. "But next time, Susan, as a
concession to good manners, you might let us know you're in the
neighborhood--?"

Susan bit her lower lip very hard before she managed to reply.

"Yes. I will next time. I'm sorry, Phil." (_Phil!_) Then she turned to
Maltby. "But I wasn't spying! I just didn't know you would any of you
mind."

"We don't, really," I said. "Sit down, dear. You're always welcome." I
had been doing some stiff, concentrated thinking in the last three
minutes, and now I had taken the plunge. "The truth is, Susan," I went
on, "that most children who live in good homes, who are what is called
'well brought up,' are carefully sheltered from any facts or words or
thoughts which their parents do not consider wholesome or pleasant.
Parents try to give their children only what they have found to be best
in life; they try to keep them in ignorance of everything else."

"But they can't," said Susan. "At least, they couldn't in Birch Street."

"No. Nor elsewhere. But they try. And they always make believe to
themselves that they have succeeded. So it's supposed to be very
shocking and dangerous for a girl of your age to listen to the free
conversation of men of our age. That's the reason we all felt a little
guilty, at first, when we found you'd been overhearing us."

"How funny," said Susan. "Papa never cared."

"Good for him!" exclaimed Maltby. "I didn't feel guilty, for one! I
refuse to be convicted of so hypocritically squeamish a reaction!"

"Oh!" Susan sighed, almost with rapture. "You know such a lot of words,
Mr. Phar! You can say anything."

"Thanks," said Maltby; "I rather flatter myself that I can."

"And you _do_!" grunted Phil. "But words," he took up the dropped
threads rather awkwardly, "are nothing in themselves, Susan. You are too
fond of mere words. It isn't words that matter; it's ideas."

"Yes, Phil," said Susan meekly, "but I love words--best of all when
they're pictures."

Phil frowned, without visible effect upon Susan. I saw that her mind had
gone elsewhere.

"Ambo?"

"Yes, dear?"

"You mustn't ever worry about me, Ambo. My hearing or knowing things--or
saying them. I--I guess I'm different."

Maltby's face was a study in suppressed amazement; Phil was still
frowni